


golden boy, my world tilts for you alone

by oculata



Series: the beginning of forever [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Phone Call, Pining, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21592564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oculata/pseuds/oculata
Summary: Ian is home from prison, but nothing feels right.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: the beginning of forever [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524932
Comments: 16
Kudos: 192





	golden boy, my world tilts for you alone

**Author's Note:**

> this story is a companion to [_grief and high delight_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21463522). thank you to the lovely [Ride4812](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride4812) for suggesting this idea and supporting my writing. <3
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_clennam)

Ian was perplexed—he was home, had been home for a good few days, and yet he felt more isolated and cut off from the world than ever. He hadn’t expected the lap of luxury, but he certainly hadn’t expected home to feel like a sad, unwelcoming projection of what he remembered it as. It felt empty despite the general state of unrest constantly coursing throughout the home and, by extension, his life. There was the commotion of two small children to attend to, Frank’s general buffoonery and insufferableness, the maze that was figuring out parole and his parole officer, and while in theory it all should have expedited his integration with general society, Ian just found himself confused and marooned in his own house and body.

The time he did spend in the house, he sat in the living room silently, seven different lives floating around him in various states of distress and glee—sometimes talking at him, or yelling around him, or prodding at him for information about fucking nothing. Then it would be time for him to go to sleep and restart the monotonous cycle of watching life happen around him as he stayed stuck in a stasis. He was in this house, surrounded by life and the bustle of the real world, and feeling like he was on another planet in terms of connectivity to it. And he couldn’t completely pin down why—surely he was supposed to feel far better about being outside, free, and at home where he could eat fruit and wake up without his spine begging to crawl out of his body.

In addition to feeling like a ghost sliding around the land of the living, Ian was also annoying the shit out of everyone around him in the odd instances when he did speak. Carl’s childhood interest in felonious activities had resurfaced, and he badgered Ian with questions about his former fellow inmates and their criminal methodologies. And though Ian would begin his reply mostly on target with a relevant answer, his train of thought would eventually—inevitably—slip into musings about Mickey. At first, Carl had been excited because he admired Ian’s boyfriend’s strategic mind and resourcefulness, but he quickly realized that Ian would just drone on about _useless_ information. Once Ian got that dreamy look in his eye and his voice became just a bit more airy, anything useful that could have come from the conversation was gone, and all Carl could do was sit there and listen to Ian list off the different ways Mickey would nudge him to silently communicate or how he had managed to make a not-terrible shampoo.

Those kinds of conversations would leave Ian feeling particularly empty.

Perhaps he was just sad and feeling disoriented—after all, he’d been living in a completely different society for months. Maybe this was an adjustment period; maybe he would feel better in a few days time, once the dust from his arrival settled.

It was as regular of a day as it could have been, and Ian was planted on the couch, mindlessly watching the moving pictures on the television when his phone buzzed against his thigh. He wasn’t really watching whatever program was on, but his eyes were glued to the screen anyway, and he robotically reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He answered the call without looking at the caller ID.

“Hel—?”

“Collect call from an inmate at Beckman Correctional Facility. Do you accept the charges?”

The sound drained out of his ears, and his blood cooled.

“Ye—yes, I accept,” he said hurriedly, jumping around the couch as a panicked search for the remote commenced. “I fucking accept!”

He was able to mute the jabbering television right as the line connected.

“Hey,” Mickey purred.

Ian felt his cheeks heat up. “Hi, Mick,” he replied, sinking into the cushions as that familiar voice and the warmness that came with it cradled him. He was more than a little struck with how he almost melted into the couch—he hadn’t quite acknowledged how much Mickey’s presence soothed and grounded him.

“You sound nice,” Mickey said dreamily. Ian could almost picture him leaning against that shitty phone, hand propping up his cheek and a dopey smile on his face, the horrendous lighting of the prison trying to obscure his beauty. But he knew Mickey, and he knew that Mickey’s smile lit up his entire face, and he looked just as gorgeous as ever. “Miss me?”

Ian sighed and cupped his face in his hand. “You don’t even fucking know how much.”

Mickey chuckled. “Bet I do."

“You really don’t. I wake up every morning wanting to swing down and kiss you and hug you. Then I wanna get breakfast with you and steal your shitty muffin. And then—”

“Christ, Gallagher, don’t get sappy on me,” Mickey interrupted. Though the diction was harsh, Mickey’s tone was anything but. He sounded a bit forlorn, each word from Ian’s mouth painting the clearest picture in his mind of what they’d had just a week ago.

“Fine. So, anyway, I’ve been thinking about blowing up another van so I can see you.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking dramatic,” Mickey responded, first sounding rather serious before losing himself to his laughter.

Mickey descended into laughter, the sound filling up the phone speaker, feeling like sun rays gently warming Ian’s skin. As he listened to Mickey try to catch his breath in between giggles, Ian felt an acute sense of yearning pierce through him. What he had called home for many years was but drywall and scuffed glass—never quite welcoming but enough to make him comfortable.

Now, though, he had found the person who was the embodiment of comfort—the one who created home wherever he went. The person whose being held his entire world together and only made it better with each passing moment.

Home was irreversibly different now, and it was horrible because he was so fucking far away.

It had been quiet for a while, and Ian hadn’t registered Mickey’s calls for his attention until he heard a very emphatic “Gallagher!” roar at him. He was quiet for a few more seconds before he spoke again.

“When do you think we’ll see each other again?”

He heard Mickey let out a strained sigh, bordering on a whimper. “I don’t know, Ian. I hope soon.”

He hoped so, too.


End file.
